There are no illusions as to where this movie falls in the sterling cannon of Exotic Marigold Hotel films: it’s the second best. Undoubtedly a rather self-satisfied tweaking of the original title—or perhaps a clumsy stab at a Hind-glish gaffe—the name atop this project rightly undercuts any potential confidence. The first one was sort of cute in that pithy "old English people swapping rejoinders" kind of way. But after traveling halfway around the world to find solace in old age, how much further do we need to carry this premise?
To recap, take a bunch of old Brits, India, a rundown hotel, a hopeful yet hapless hotel owner in Sonny (Dev Patel), and Sonny’s girlfriend of which Mother does not approve. Set the cycle to “it all works out for the best,” and you’re caught up. This second installment drops us on the edge of old storylines with limited new potential. Sonny’s pending nuptials to Sunaina (Tina Desai) as well as his angling for big American dollars to expand the hotel compete for the A-plot. From there, plots B through E tumble out as halfheartedly as Douglas Ainslie’s (Bill Nighy) tours of Jaipur’s famous tourist attractions.
There’s really no cursory explanation of the story. The writers try to install every player in this ensemble cast with their own meaningful subplot. As such, the story has more threads than the quality fabrics Evelyn (Dame Judy Dench) is trying to source for her new job. Legit, one of the other storylines. Between hired hits on girlfriends, incognito hotel inspectors, gentleman callers, wedding preparations, and unrequited love, there is a whole mess of story to try and wade through. The real shortcoming isn’t in the film trying to do too much—there is a world where these plots balance—but it’s doing so little with all the story offered.
The plot movement is pretty damn excruciating. With absolutely no surprises, even a payout nestled like a Russian doll in a much more painfully obvious turn is weightless. The movie felt like it ended, or should have ended, at least four separate times, and I was grateful each go round. The saving grace is the Vegas style buffet of considerable talent. And if anybody asks, Maggie Smith (reprising her role as the salty, wise Muriel Donnelly) is still running things until we hear otherwise. Even lingering on the edges of this picture as the lion’s share of plot is given over to others, she is the best.
The review is pretty much over here, but can I indulge in a polemic? There are two things that really bug me about Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
First off, we have got to change how we depict India as westerners in need of some validation. I hate to be that dick who’s all like, “I’ve been to India,” but I am a dick, I have been to India, and it’s not where this movie is set. Much like Wes Anderson’s asinine Darjeeling Limited, India does not require some cutesy makeover. India’s people aren’t wise in their noble poverty. You’re just an asshole. India is dirty and awesome and insane and beautiful and great and just plain horrible. Basically, it’s another place on planet earth, not some mystery to be decoded to fit our newly expanded consciousness. Let’s move on from the bill of goods sold to us by a bunch of gross, wayward hippies and have a bit more respect for a wildly diverse, incredibly complex place. India is India, not a magic, alien land of saris and painted elephants designed to pry open your third eye.
The second element competing for my ire, being old sucks. Or at least SBEMH makes it seem that way. So, like, if I live to get old, the last thing I’m going to do is let the burden of life’s utter nonsense continue to weigh me down. That’s so much of what occupies this movie, septuagenarians and octogenarians still having to learn to let go and enjoy life. I barely hold up my end of the social contract now because I haven’t fully escaped to an age where I’m allowed to fart wherever. But when you’re 70 something and in India and still gripping hold of useless anxieties and social mores, what’s the point? If you’re intent on wringing your hands during the years were you’re given a pass to do, no exaggeration, whatever you want, I have nothing to learn from you.
In the end we do arrive at a lesson of this ilk, but as we knew from the get go, we were always going to limp into a second place finish.
—Monte Monreal
To recap, take a bunch of old Brits, India, a rundown hotel, a hopeful yet hapless hotel owner in Sonny (Dev Patel), and Sonny’s girlfriend of which Mother does not approve. Set the cycle to “it all works out for the best,” and you’re caught up. This second installment drops us on the edge of old storylines with limited new potential. Sonny’s pending nuptials to Sunaina (Tina Desai) as well as his angling for big American dollars to expand the hotel compete for the A-plot. From there, plots B through E tumble out as halfheartedly as Douglas Ainslie’s (Bill Nighy) tours of Jaipur’s famous tourist attractions.
There’s really no cursory explanation of the story. The writers try to install every player in this ensemble cast with their own meaningful subplot. As such, the story has more threads than the quality fabrics Evelyn (Dame Judy Dench) is trying to source for her new job. Legit, one of the other storylines. Between hired hits on girlfriends, incognito hotel inspectors, gentleman callers, wedding preparations, and unrequited love, there is a whole mess of story to try and wade through. The real shortcoming isn’t in the film trying to do too much—there is a world where these plots balance—but it’s doing so little with all the story offered.
The plot movement is pretty damn excruciating. With absolutely no surprises, even a payout nestled like a Russian doll in a much more painfully obvious turn is weightless. The movie felt like it ended, or should have ended, at least four separate times, and I was grateful each go round. The saving grace is the Vegas style buffet of considerable talent. And if anybody asks, Maggie Smith (reprising her role as the salty, wise Muriel Donnelly) is still running things until we hear otherwise. Even lingering on the edges of this picture as the lion’s share of plot is given over to others, she is the best.
The review is pretty much over here, but can I indulge in a polemic? There are two things that really bug me about Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
First off, we have got to change how we depict India as westerners in need of some validation. I hate to be that dick who’s all like, “I’ve been to India,” but I am a dick, I have been to India, and it’s not where this movie is set. Much like Wes Anderson’s asinine Darjeeling Limited, India does not require some cutesy makeover. India’s people aren’t wise in their noble poverty. You’re just an asshole. India is dirty and awesome and insane and beautiful and great and just plain horrible. Basically, it’s another place on planet earth, not some mystery to be decoded to fit our newly expanded consciousness. Let’s move on from the bill of goods sold to us by a bunch of gross, wayward hippies and have a bit more respect for a wildly diverse, incredibly complex place. India is India, not a magic, alien land of saris and painted elephants designed to pry open your third eye.
The second element competing for my ire, being old sucks. Or at least SBEMH makes it seem that way. So, like, if I live to get old, the last thing I’m going to do is let the burden of life’s utter nonsense continue to weigh me down. That’s so much of what occupies this movie, septuagenarians and octogenarians still having to learn to let go and enjoy life. I barely hold up my end of the social contract now because I haven’t fully escaped to an age where I’m allowed to fart wherever. But when you’re 70 something and in India and still gripping hold of useless anxieties and social mores, what’s the point? If you’re intent on wringing your hands during the years were you’re given a pass to do, no exaggeration, whatever you want, I have nothing to learn from you.
In the end we do arrive at a lesson of this ilk, but as we knew from the get go, we were always going to limp into a second place finish.
—Monte Monreal
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